


My Beauty It's Black

by crazycat1895



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dancing, Falling In Love, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazycat1895/pseuds/crazycat1895
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been for several weeks now that John was going out over the weekend, and Sherlock still had no clue where he went. Sherlock could have asked him, but he would never do that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 3  
> The promt was: Songfic! Write a story inspired by music.
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful WickedForGood13 for support and help, all mistakes are mine. I'd appreciate feedback, thanks and enjoy (hopefully!).

Read the German translation on [ FF.net ](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9238308/1/My-Beauty-Is-Black) or [ LJ ](http://crazycat1895.livejournal.com/6276.html)

 

 

_You and me, we spark; no, I take that back_  
 _Like a dancer in the dark, my beauty it's black_  
 _Just match your lips up to mine_  
 _Come on and steal a kiss, rob me blind_

_(Rob Me Blind by Jay Brennan)<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaMixtNVO8M>_

 

It had been for several weeks now that John was going out over the weekend, and Sherlock still had no clue where he went. He knew that John didn't have a girlfriend currently; he knew that he wasn't meeting with Lestrade or Stamford, so where was he going? Sherlock could have asked him, but he would never do that. He could always deduce it; and of course he could know if he had really wanted to.

 

Sherlock frowned at his violin. Normally it was his chosen distraction, but it wasn't helping this time. He had tried composing something, but he couldn't concentrate, his mind drifting off again and again. He pushed the violin aside and threw himself onto the couch.

 

Tomorrow was Friday and he was pretty sure that John would go out again. He himself had a case, and he promised Lestrade to help him. They wanted to catch a blackmailer in the act. Sherlock would assume the role of the victim and meet him at a club or a pub - somewhere that Lestrade's people could observe him unobtrusively. He closed his eyes; his fingers positioned beneath his chin as if in prayer, and let his thoughts wander.

 

***

 

Two hours later John came home. It had been a long and busy day at the surgery, and he was tired and hungry. Sherlock was still lying on the couch; he hadn't moved since he had lain down in the afternoon, didn't now, so John said only "Hi," not expecting an answer, and went straight to the kitchen to see if he could find something edible in the fridge. Of course, nothing was there, as usual, because he hadn't had time to do the shopping and Sherlock ... he had decided that it wasn't worth getting upset about something he couldn't change. 

 

"Sherlock, you want something to eat? There's nothing in, so I'm going to get something from the Chinese down the street, I think. Want something?" John switched on the kettle and took two mugs and tea bags from the cupboard. When the tea was ready he went back into the living room and put Sherlock's cup next to him at the coffee table.

  

"Sherlock! Are you listening to me? New case?" John sat down in his armchair, sipping his tea and watching his flatmate. Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed at John, who was now shifting uneasily in his seat. "Are you all right, Sherlock?" John took another sip.

 

With an elegant sweep Sherlock sat up. "Yes, I'm all right and Chinese would be nice, thanks." With that he got up and disappeared into his room.

 

Ok, right, Chinese then. John drained his mug and put it in the sink, then grabbed his coat and went to get their food. He was currently too tired to think or worry about Sherlock.

 

When the doctor came back, Sherlock left his room and they ate together. Sherlock told him about the extortion-case and that he would help Lestrade the next day. John asked if he could assist, but Sherlock declined, that wouldn't be necessary; Lestrade's people would be there to provide Sherlock's safety. In the moment he had said it, he would have most liked to slap his own face. Stupid, stupid, stupid! If John accompanied him then he wouldn't go out alone. How could he be so stupid? But now it was too late, John would find it very odd if he changed his mind now.

 

John himself was a little disappointed, as he would have liked participating. But if he wouldn't be needed, then he wouldn't intrude. They watched telly until John's eyes eventually fell shut and he went to bed; Sherlock checked one of his experiments and took some notes.

 

***

 

When John came home from the surgery the next evening, he found the flat empty. Sherlock was on the case with Lestrade and John knew that it could take all night. So he made himself some pasta with tomato sauce - he had done the shopping after work - ate one serving and put the rest in the fridge in case Sherlock would like some later. After he had done the washing up, John went to his room and lay down to read a book; he wanted to rest for a little bit.

 

***

 

Sherlock first went to the Yard in order to discuss the remaining issues. He wore none of his tailored suits, rather some blue jeans and a plain white button down, and he had exchanged his coat for a brown leather jacket. He had also smoothed his hair so that his curls were almost gone. He was ready to go.

 

When he entered the club where he was supposed to meet the blackmailer, he had changed his whole stature, his gait and attitude; he even seemed to be smaller than before. This wasn't Sherlock Holmes; this was a broken and blackmailed man who came to pay for a mistake he had made years ago. 

 

Sherlock sat down at the bar and ordered a pint, holding his briefcase in his lap, close to his chest. He looked scared, anxious. Twenty minutes later a thickset dark man took the seat next to him. It was the man he was waiting for and it took Sherlock only fifteen minutes to let him say all the relevant things they need to arrest him. When he tried to escape, Lestrade and his people caught and arrested him. Sherlock ripped the mic of his skin and handed it to Lestrade.

 

"Come with us? I can give you a lift home." Lestrade glanced at him expectantly. "I'll have lots of paperwork, but you can come over tomorrow and make your statement."

 

"Ok", Sherlock replied, "I'll come tomorrow, but now I'm gonna stay here and have my drink, if you don't mind. See you, Lestrade." And with these words he turned around and ignored the chief inspector. Lestrade sighed, "All right, see you tomorrow. And greetings to John." His only answer was an "Hm hm" and a nod from Sherlock.

 

He left the club and Sherlock turned around again to watch the people. He liked that, watching and deducing; he would have liked it more, if he had someone to talk to, but John wasn't there. Stupid, he thought again, so stupid, why had he declinedJohn's offer to help? Should he send him a text?

 

There were about twenty-five tables and behind them were the dance floor. The audience was mixed, but most was between twenty-five and forty-five. While he was thinking whether he should send a text or not, Sherlock's gaze slid his over the dancers, before he froze. He stared at one particular dancer in black tight trousers, black tight t-shirt, sandy-blonde short hair … John!

 

His first impulse was to go to him and drag him off the dance floor. He should be here, with him, Sherlock, listening to his deductions. Sherlock watched the dancing doctor closer. He hadn't seen John in this clothing before, it's suits him. Under the tight black T-Shirt he could see his muscles moving, it was … appealing. John was dancing really well. His movements were smooth and powerful; he was moving perfectly to the beat and seemed to be wrapped up in it.

 

And Sherlock wasn't alone in his observations; he recognised a woman dancing around John. She tried to catch his attention, but John ignored her. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Not just this woman was attracted to John, there was also a handsome bloke dancing around him as well, and John smiled at him several times. He was about Sherlock's size, dark-haired, with a well trained body, and John _smiled_ at him!

 

Sherlock felt a stitch in his chest that he didn't recognise and when John and the other man went over to the bar for a drink, two songs later, Sherlock was gone.

 

***

 

The following day found Sherlock on the sofa in his thinking-pose. He didn't speak, he didn't eat, he didn't move. He had heard John coming home early in the morning, so clearly he had spent the night somewhere else. But not with the woman, he had ignored the woman. John had previously only had girlfriends, so since when he was attracted to men? And why did it bother Sherlock so much? The sting in his chest hasn't stopped hurting; on the contrary, it had gotten worse when John didn't come home that night. But why? Sherlock didn't understand what had happened, so he needed to think about it.

 

It had never bothered him before if John went on out on dates with a variety of women. His relationships usually didn't last very long anyway, and when John was needed for a case he always was there. So what was different aboutthis time?

 

First of all, John hadn't had a girlfriend for months, which was unusual. Secondly, it had been a man last night. And thirdly, John wasn't usually the one for a one-night stand, that wasn't like him. Something must have changed, but he hadn't noticed anything.

 

He hadn't noticed… Maybe that was the problem, yes. That was logical and made sense. So why hadn't he noticed it before? How could he miss something like that? What else had he missed? And why was it important whetherJohn was dating women or men? Probably it would be better if he was dating a man; the chance that he would marry and move out was much less with a man than with a woman. But what about "I'm not gay", John had stated in every appropriate or inappropriate situation? Sherlock blinked. And all this could still not explain why he was so irritated!

 

John didn't come down until late in the morning to make himself a cup of tea and toast. Yawning, he asked Sherlock if he wanted some tea too, but received no response. So he sat down with his mug and his plate to check his mails, then he worked for a while on his blog. The situation was a little bit odd, he thought, because obviously Sherlock didn't want to speak to him, yet he was watching him over again when he thought John didn't notice.

 

"Sherlock", he tried after he'd showered, "are you all right?" No response. "What about that blackmailing-case?" He furrowed his brows, Sherlock hadn't told him anything yet. "Sherlock", he tried once more, "could you please talk to me?" Nothing, Sherlock just stared at the ceiling. The doctor gave up. "Ok, I need some air. See you later." With that he left the flat, leaving Sherlock staring.

 

That evening John went out late. He had tried talking to Sherlock after his walk, but failed again. So he grabbed his laptop and went up to his room to surf a bit on the Internet. It didn't bother him that Sherlock sometimes didn't talk to him for days, he was used to that, but this was different. Being deduced the whole time was nerve-wracking. Perhaps it was a new experiment? How long do I need to cause my roommate to have a nervous breakdown just by staring at him? That would be just like him! Who could know what went on in Sherlock Holmes' head?

 

It was 11.30 pm when Sherlock heard the front door. He hadn't heard the stairs, so John had paid attention to being quiet. Half an hour later he left the flat and headed to the club where he saw John last night; wearing the leather-jacket, not his conspicuous coat. He was certain that John would be there again and he had to know what was going on. Even if he wasn't quite sure what exactly he meant with that phrase.

 

***

 

Sherlock ordered a drink and found a place from where he could observe the dance floor without being seen himself. And there he was, John, dancing on his own but never alone. The whole time women, but also men, buzzed around him and tried to get his attention. He was dressed all in black again, the trousers and the t-shirt skin-tight, so that he could see the muscles flexing under the fabric. It was gorgeous; John was beautiful, as he was moving to the rhythm of the music.

 

The next song was a slow one and John's eyes were closed most of the time, ignoring a pretty blonde who danced around him for a while. It was breathtaking, and Sherlock literally forgot to breathe. He could onlystare open-mouthed at John. Then a fast song followed, the beat was harder. John seemed to absorb it, was once again one with the music and the rhythm. So it went on for three or four more songs, until John paused and took a drink at the bar. Meanwhile, two other women and a man had tried to dance with him, but he had ignored them all.

 

Sherlock pressed deeper into the shadows. Under no circumstances should John discover him; he had no clue as to what he would tell him. He was totally confused, didn't understand what was happening to him. He wanted to go home, but then John went back to the dance floor, and Sherlock couldn't tear his gaze from him. He felt totally lost.

 

Then the dark-haired bloke from the night before turned up again and Sherlock felt a knot form in his stomach. The guy stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching John. Eventually he danced, pushed his way ever closer to John, smiling at him, finally speaking to him. Sherlock felt bile rising in his throat. Suddenly he couldn't stand it anymore. As calmly as he could manage he left the club and headed back to 221B.

 

He felt dizzy, and the urge to vomit was still there. Restless, he paced through the flat until he heard John's steps on the stairs. Sherlock stopped dead, than stormed into his bedroom and locked the door. So at least John came home tonight, that was good, wasn't it? Sherlock gritted his teeth. What was happeningtohim? Why was that supposed to be good? He listened. Was John alone? Had he possibly brought the dark-haired fellow back with him? No, he wouldn't…. he couldn't.... Sherlock gagged and ran to the bathroom to vomit.

 

 ***

 

When John came home he saw the light in the living room and he heard Sherlock's steps. For a moment he wondered if he should check on him, but it was late and he was tired. He had danced half the night and it had been difficult to shake off Victor. He wasn't sure if he could deal with his mad flatmate right now. Before he went to bed he came down to get a glass of water, and it was then that he heard it. Was Sherlock vomiting? Was he sick? Oh, for heaven's sake, why hadn't he told him? He knocked at the bathroom door. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you ok?" His only answer was another gagging.

 

He knocked again. "Sherlock! Open the door!" Again, a choking sound. That was enough; luckily Sherlock hadn't locked the door. When he came into the bathroom, John saw Sherlock huddled next to the toilet. He was kneeling on the ground, his face was ashen and he looked terrible. "Sherlock", John knelt beside him. "Sherlock, what happened?" Gently he laid an arm around his shoulders to support him; with the other hand he checked his forehead, it was freezing cold, and Sherlock was trembling all over. "Come, I'll take you to bed. Come on." With some effort, he managed to pull Sherlock up and maneuvered him into his bedroom. He sat down at the edge of the bed and helped him to undress. Then he put a bucket at his bedside, placed a packet of tissues and a glass of water on the nightstand. Sherlock had stopped shaking, he lay with closed eyes under the covers, and he looked so ... vulnerable. So not like ... Sherlock.

 

It frightened John to see him like that. Something must have happened. John sat down at his bedside. "Sherlock, what's wrong? Can you tell me what happened?" But Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, then began to tremble again. "Calm down, Sherlock, it's all right." John stroked his upper arm soothingly. "I'll stay here until you sleep, it's all fine." Sherlock gradually relaxed and finally fell asleep. He wasn't aware of John stroking through his curls and giving him a soft kiss on the forehead before he left his room.

 

***

 

Sherlock awoke the following morning with a terrible taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes and saw the tissues, the glass of water and the bucket, and it all came back. Like a wave the realisation struck him. The emotions, which had overwhelmed him, the nausea, it all came back. His body had betrayed him. He began to tremble again. Sentiment! He hated it! He forced himself to breathe calmly until the tremors subsided and eventually stopped, then he took a sip of water and fell back into the pillows.

 

He needed to think! John. John dressed in black. John dancing. John with the other man. John! His stomach clenched, his chest ached. No! He didn't want this! Sentiment was not his division. The work was his life, everything else was just transport. Caring was not an advantage; quite the contrary, love was a dangerous disadvantage. Irene had supplied the evidence to him. Furious, he turned over in his bed. He had to pull himself together, he had to get his thoughts and emotions back under control.

 

When John came down an hour later, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, reading the newspaper, next to him a cup of coffee. He was perfectly dressed as always and his face was completely blank as he said good morning to John. John hesitated a moment, then he went into the kitchen to get some coffee. Had the events of last night been nothing more than a dream? He made toast and took the plate and the coffee back to the living room and sat down in his chair.

 

After he had put down his plate, he took a sip of the coffee. "How are you this morning? Obviously the nausea disappeared."

 

"Hmm? Oh, yes, yes, it seems so." Sherlock looked up, he was a bit unsure. "Must have eaten something that did not agree with me. Umm ... well ... about last night ... umm … thank you."

 

John tilted his head and watched him closely. "Are you okay? You just thanked me."

 

Sherlock's face closed up. He picked up the newspaper again and barricaded himself behind the pages. John sighed, "I'm sorry, Sherlock." But it was too late, Sherlock didn't reply. That was not what he had intended. For the rest of the day Sherlock wrapped himself in silence.

 

That didn't change throughout the course of the whole next week. Sherlock was exceptionally quiet, even though he had no new cases. Something was botheringhim, but John had no idea what it was. Most of the time Sherlock lay silently on the sofa and thought, his hands clasped under his chin. In any case, the doctor suspected that he was thinking.

 

 ***

 

Finally it was Friday again. John was exhausted from work, and also by Sherlock's non-compliance. Only a few days ago he had thought that it wouldn't bother him if Sherlock didn't talk for days, that wouldn't happen to him anymore.

 

If he only knew what was going on, how he could help him. He had tried several times to talk to him, had yelled at him, apologized, begged him and screamed again. Nothing. Sherlock simply ignored him and that made him ... angry ... and sad ... and so angry! Eventually, he avoided seeing him any more than was absolutely necessary, because if he was honest with himself, and he was that at least, it did hurt.

 

John came home later than usual, because he had seen some of Sarah's patients; she had had an appointment outside the surgery that afternoon. But he didn't intend on staying long. After a quick shower, he went to his room, changed his clothes and left the house again. He wanted to eat something somewhere and then go to the club to let off some steam. Maybe he could think more clearly again afterwards and consider what to do about his mad flatmate, how to persuade him to talk to him. He wouldn't survive another week like this. And maybe he would even find something at the club tonight, someone who could distract him from his thoughts at ....

 

As he crossed the street, he turned and stopped for a moment. His eyes went up to the window of his - their - flat. Was Sherlock in his room, or was he in the living room? Was he perhaps even at the window? The curtain had moved, hadn't it? No, silly to think about that, he dropped his head. Then he straightened up; he had to get over it, this was pointless. He gritted his teeth; right, first he would find something to eat. Resolutely, he turned and walked away.

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

 

Sherlock stood at the window and watched the doctor as he left the house. When he turned and looked up, Sherlock stepped back from the window. John was not mistaken, the curtain had moved. Sherlock had been thinking the entire week about John, had been trying to figure out what had happened to him last Saturday. But he couldn't get anywhere with that. It was frustrating. He just couldn't understand why his feelings for John had suddenly changed. And why he couldn't suppress and forget them like he had from his childhood on with all the unwanted emotions. Emotions made him open to attack, vulnerable, weak. He did not want that, that was not like him! But he noticed that his carefully constructed walls that had grown over the years, which had becoming thicker and harder, began crumbling at one point. John. John was different; John was clawing at the mortar.  
  
Contrary to what he had planned, Sherlock went back to the club. He had to see John dancing again. The whole week John had shunned him; of course Sherlock had provoked his behavior deliberately, but tonight he could watch him without John noticing. Thankfully it was always so crowded at the weekend that he would remain unseen. He picked up a drink and looked for a spot from where he could see the dance floor without being noticed himself.  
  
Then he saw him. It was like the last time. John, once again all in black, was completely absorbed in the music. Sherlock's gaze was stuck on him, he could watch him for hours. John's eyes were closed, different emotions were mirrored on his face, and it was just incredible. The dark-haired guy was there again, but he stood at the edge of the dance floor and watched John from there, just like Sherlock, except that the other one didn't hide in the shadows.  
  
Sherlock couldn't tear himself away from John, he was mesmerized. Startled, he jumped as the dark-haired man suddenly stood in front of him.  
  
"Hello, I'm Victor."  
  
It took Sherlock a moment to collect himself. "Hello ... Victor, can I help you with something?" He had regained fully control, raising an eyebrow questioningly.  
  
"You are only here to watch him."  
  
Sherlock was silent and looked at him blankly.  
  
"He is not good for you." Sherlock's eyebrow questioningly wandered upwards. "He is unlucky in love, lets off some of his frustration, but nobody comes close to him. Believe me, I've tried more than once." A sad smile crossed his face.  
  
Sherlock looked straight at him, his intense gaze boring into Victor's eyes. "Oh, yeah?"  
  
"Well, sure. Once I've had a drink with him, he has told me a bit, mainly about his great love. But the guy must be a real tosser; he was in a really bad mood when he arrived here today."  
  
"The _guy_? So no girlfriend." Sherlock squinted.  
  
"Obviously not." Sherlock's mouth quirked slightly when he heard this phrase. "In any case, I've no doubts considering the few things he has told me. But I don't know much, only that the other one probably is not interested and ignores him. That breaks him down, even if he doesn't say as much, but in recent weeks it's getting increasingly worse. Uhmm ... what do you like to drink?"  
  
Sherlock knew he wouldn't get any more information out of Victor, so it would be a waste of time and energy. "Nothing, thanks." Was that enough or had he to be more specific?  
  
Victor looked at him, and what he saw in Sherlock's face was enough to make him realise that he had tried in vain here and that it was futile. "Ok, see you."  
  
Sherlock nodded and turned back to the dance floor, his eyes roamed over the heads, seeking out John. But the doctor was gone. Sherlock's eyes frantically wandered around the room, scanning every angle until he saw him at the bar.  
  
But John wasn't drinking anything. Instead, he was staring straight at him. Victor stood next to him and talked insistently to him, pointing at Sherlock. The entire colour had drained from John's face and he looked as if he had received a blow to the gut. Then he turned on his heels and disappeared.  
  
Sherlock stood there for a few seconds, petrified, until he rushed behind him without thinking. Outside the door he saw John leap into a cab, then he was gone. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. That had gone horribly wrong. He hadn't intended for John to see him in the club. Sherlock slowly walked towards Baker Street. He wanted to think, but he couldn't. All his thoughts were replaced by the image of John. John, who was looking at him with this indescribable expression. He had seen the shock in his eyes, as well as pain and fear. He would never forget how he had looked at him.  
  
                                        

***

  
When he stood outside the front door of 221B he hesitated a moment, then opened the door and went inside. He walked up the stairs softly, listening for a sound from the flat or John's room, but everything was quiet. Hadn't John come home? Where was he? Sherlock opened every door, went through every room, finally he knocked at John's door, and when he got no response, he opened it cautiously.  
  
John was on his bed, back to the door. He was still wearing the black pants and the t-shirt he had worn at the club. He had drawn his knees to his chest and curled up into a ball.  
  
"John," Sherlock tried very tentatively.  
  
"Get out!"  
  
There was so much repressed anger in these two words Sherlock was startled and stepped back.  
  
He tried again. "John, can we ..." He got no further. Suddenly John was standing in front of him; sometimes Sherlock forgot how incredibly fast this man could move. Sherlock flinched again.  
  
He growled at him through clenched teeth, restraining his anger with difficulty. "I said that you should bugger off. For heaven's sake, can't you do what I told you, for once?"  
  
"John, I …"  
  
"OUT!" This time he really yelled at him, he wasn't just angry, he was furious. "Get out of here, now! Who do you think you are? Was this another one of your experiments, or have you been spying on me out of sheer boredom? Forget it, forget it, I don't wanna know. But I have to congratulate", his voice was dripping with sarcasm, "you have destroyed every last bit of privacy that I had left. You can be proud of that, at least; as usual you were very thorough." He turned and threw himself back onto the bed. "And close the door behind you." The last words came quietly from the bed, not angry, just tired and resigned.  
  
John closed his eyes and listened to the click of the door, then let out the breath he had been holding unconsciously. Oh God, what should he do now? How much did Sherlock know? Had his outburst betrayed him? He should stop it here and now and look for a new flat. Even if Sherlock hadn't noticed yet, he eventually would. Sherlock would be horrified, and he couldn't bear the shame. He sighed deeply, a single tear fell on his pillow. Fuck, fuck, fuck!  
  
Something creaked behind him and John froze, he opened his eyes wide, his heart raced and he caught his breath. His mattress was moving, then he felt a feather-light touch on his hair. He shivered involuntarily and the touch changed into a caress. John could feel Sherlock's long fingers gently massaging his head and somehow wiping out all thoughts. He closed his eyes again, couldn't think straight, could only feel those fingers on his scalp. Slowly the tension seeped from his body. Sherlock lay down beside him on the bed, with the distance of an arm's length, so his fingers could glide through John's hair.  
  
"John, please believe me, I didn't spy on you. It was pure chance. When I had the extortion case, the money delivery was to take place in the club. The blackmailer came, I was able to furnish evidence, and Lestrade and his men arrested him. I remained at the club, because it's a good place to watch people without being noticed. You know me, such a good opportunity ... . And then, I saw you … dancing … and it was ... amazing."  
  
John's body stiffened at hearing the last sentence, but Sherlock's hand continued to move through his hair. "You were overwhelming; I don't know how I can describe it to you. I just had to see more, you were so ... beautiful." His words became softer, as if he was afraid to say it out loud. "And I was not the only one who noticed", he added quickly. "I saw how the women swarmed around you, but also some men. You danced with Victor, and then I left."  
  
John turned to face him. "You know Victor?" He almost regretted it when Sherlock took his hand away.  
  
"No, that is ... now I know him. He approached me today, he has noticed that I … that I only - ever  ..." Sherlock hemmed and hawed.  
  
"That you've only ever been watching me the whole time?" Now John wanted to know what was going on.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock admitted.  
  
"Why? Sherlock, why? I don't understand!"  
  
"That's precisely what I'm trying to explain. But it is not so easy; I really don't understand it." Sherlock tore his hair in frustration. "Seeing you dancing triggered something in me that I do not understand! Emotions that I've never had before, that I never wanted to have. I was always able to suppress any and all unwanted feelings, to delete them; it was never any trouble for me, never. John, when I was a child I had already learned that emotions were disadvantage. They make you vulnerable and weak, you saw it with Irene."  
  
Gradually, John began to understand what Sherlock had busy during the past week. His whole world obviously had been faltered - by him!? That was the point he could not grasp.  
  
"I left when you came to the bar to have a drink with him, I didn't want... it was ..." He broke off, his thoughts drifted to that first night again. Then he shuddered, as if he could shake off the thoughts, too. "You didn't coming home that night; I assumed that you were with him. That ... that was ..."  
  
"Not good?" John asked softly. Sherlock nodded. "Not good," he repeated.  
  
"I was not with him", John said after a short silence. "We had a drink and we danced. It was the first time that I'd ever flirted ... with a guy. I don't know, it was ... weird, but also ... exciting. Later, we went to another club that was open until morning. We talked a lot and ... eventually we kissed. But there was nothing else. I think Victor had been expecting more."  
  
"So, you haven't ..." Sherlock closed his eyes.  
  
"God, no, Sherlock!" Again there was a pause, a longer one this time.  
  
"I didn't want to go to the club anymore." Sherlock spoke with his eyes closed again; it was impossible for him to look at John. "I didn't want these feelings. But I had to go again, I ... I couldn't help myself, I had to see you again, see you dancing." His voice drifted away. "Then I saw him, he walked over to you, danced with you, talked to you. I did not understood why, but I couldn't stand it and I left again. And when you came home later, I thought that you might bring him, let him stay with you overnight."  
  
John's voice was very quiet and flat. "You didn't have an upset stomach, it wasn't the food. I should have known it. It was all because you thought I slept with him?" He was stunned. "But how ... what ... how ...? You just said you do not have such feelings. How, then, can this idea cause such a reaction? Sherlock? Sherlock, open your eyes!"  
  
Sherlock was pale again, while John spoke. He tried to focus on his breathing, in order to suppress the nausea which was back. Finally he opened his eyes and saw John's face in front of him. He seemed desperate when he finally blurted out. "I did not want those feelings, but ... I can not help it. I have tried. I've tried to suppress them, ignore them, but they are stronger. You are stronger. No matter what I do, I always have to think about you. I can't compose, I can't work, I can't sleep! I always see you, how you danced that night in the club, how you moved to the music in your black t-shirt, eyes closed, one with the rhythm and the melody, with effortless grace, lithe - beautifully - breathtaking. - And with Victor", Sherlock stopped abruptly.  
  
"Sherlock", John cupped Sherlock's face with both hands. God, this was so weird. "Sherlock, there was nothing between Victor and me, except the kissing, I've already told you. He's a nice guy and I was attracted to him at first, but only because he reminded me of you, with his size and the dark hair. And for a brief moment, I tried to imagine that it was you I was sitting with, and that it was you kissing me", his voice was only a whisper, his eyes flickered over Sherlock's face, stopped at his slightly parted lips and he couldn't look away. "But it didn't work. The wrong lips, the wrong mouth." Gently his thumb stroked over Sherlock's lower lip.  
  
"John ..." Sherlock's voice was hoarse. Their eyes met and were caught in each other's gaze. John's lips parted, he swallowed hard, ran his fingers through the dark curls.  
  
And finally their lips met, very slightly at first, carefully groping, tentatively, uncertain; and then more courageous, exploring new terrain. Their kisses got more passionate and hungry; eventually they clung to each other almost desperately, parting only to catch their breaths.  
  
                                                                                             

***

  
  
The next morning John woke up because he couldn't move. He lay on his back; something - someone - was lying on him and held him. At first he was overwhelmed by panic, until he remembered the night before. Sherlock. Sherlock! The doctor opened his eyes and looked at tousled dark curls. Sherlock's head was on his chest, his long arms and legs pinning him quite effectively to the mattress. Sherlock's right arm was wrapped around his waist, their legs were intertwined, Sherlock's body pressed to his right side. He looked so young, so innocent.  
  
A flush of warmth filled his chest; it felt like it would burst. He was so happy. With his free hand he stroked Sherlock's arm and kissed him lightly on the hair. Had all that really happened last night? He couldn't believe it. But here he was, with Sherlock - Sherlock! - in his arms. He couldn't remember when he had ever been so happy. He brushed a curl out of Sherlocks face, caressing his cheek. The phrase 'Finally arrived' flashed through his head. Yes, that's it, he had finally arrived home, although most people would probably find it more than strange to associate Sherlock with 'home'. But that was exactly how it was; Sherlock was his home, his world, now everything fell into place. Oh god, how he loved this man.  
  
"Stop thinking", he heard a drowsily from down upon his chest. "It's too early." Sherlock stirred and opened an eye, blinking slowly up at him.  
  
"Good morning", John grinned, Sherlock was grumpy in the morning and from the clock on the bedside table he could see that it was actually very early. Moreover, it was Saturday and he didn't have to go to the surgery today. He pulled his right arm out from under Sherlock and hugged him tighter, stroking his cheek again.  
  
"For a 'good' morning, it is clearly too early", Sherlock grumbled, turning on his side to face John, his right hand unconsciously stroking John's side and two very awake gray-blue eyes wandering over his face. It was as if Sherlock was trying to read his mind. Then a small smile crept on Sherlock's face, a little hesitant at first, as if he was not sure whether it was the right response. But what he could read in his face seemed to convince him, because the smile soon grew into a wide grin.  
  
John gave him a bright smile back. "Did you sleep well?" Sherlock yawned, "I slept better than I have in weeks." John's grin widened. "That's something you can get more frequently." He leaned on his elbow and gave Sherlock a little kiss.  
  
Sherlock stretched and kissed him slowly and thoroughly. John opened his lips, kissing him back; he slid down until he was in Sherlock's arms and they held each other, as they had done for half the night.  
  
        

***

                                                                                    
  
During the night, nothing much had happened, and yet so much. They had held each other like two drowning men, looking for a hold, gasping for air. They had kissed ... and kissed until their lips were swollen and sore and they were out of breath - and then they continued to kiss. Their hands on each other's face, hair, neck, shoulders and torso. There was so much to explore, but in this first night something else was important. In this first night they needed mutual assurance that it was true, that this was not a dream but reality.  
  
At first John couldn't believe that Sherlock really wanted him, average, normal, boring John. He was still a bit worried that he would have second thoughts, would glance at him with his piercing eyes, amazed, and would ask him what he had been thinking. But when he looked in his eyes now, he could see that everything had changed. Not only his world was upside down.  
  
Sherlock had wrapped himself around John, quite literally, with his long arms and legs. He had to feel him, hold him, to be sure that he would not fall.  
  
After he woke up, because John couldn't have come to a halt, it had taken some time before his brain could classify the unusual sleeping position. Then he had abruptly realised that it was John he was clutching. It had cost all of his courage to open his eyes and then to look at John, but one glance at his face showed him, that it was true and he could relax.  
  
And now he was allowed to kiss John. Whenever he wanted. He could simply go through the living room and give John, who would be sitting in his chair and reading the paper, a kiss. The thought brought another big grin to his face. Oh, how he wanted to! He wondered why he had never tried before, it was great, overwhelming. He had missed so much! Then he imagined someone other than John hugging and kissing him, and an icy shiver ran down his spine. No, never. He shook involuntarily.  
  
"You all right?" John asked, more surprised than worried.  
  
"Yes …  yes, I'm fine."  
  
"What are you thinking about then?"  
  
After some hesitation, Sherlock replied: "Kissing."  
  
John leaned on his elbows to get a better look at Sherlock. "Kissing me?"  
  
"Kissing you, wherever I want, whenever I want." He shivered again, but this time it was because he had seen John's gaze, his large, dark pupils.  
  
"Where do you want to kiss me?" John's voice was low and husky.  
  
Oh … oh! Sherlock realised that John's "where" was different than his . He grinned, "I thought about the living room."  
  
Now it was John's turn to realise, and he grinned, too. But instead of an answer he started to kiss Sherlock's throat, down his neck and to his collarbone. He'd always dreamed of this whenever Sherlock wore his shirts with open collars; he never closed the last buttons, never wore a tie. Sherlock turned his head to give him more space and a moan escaped from his mouth when John's teeth scraped over the delicate skin. "And I've been thinking about your throat for such a long time", he murmured.  
  
His kisses became more forcefully, his teeth bit harder and left dark marks on Sherlock's pale skin; it was marvelous. Sherlock groaned aloud; he didn't mind the marks John left on his neck and his collarbone, not when it felt so good. John kissed and licked his way down, his tongue swirling around his nipples, and Sherlock arched his back and drew in a sharp breath.  
  
"There are more places where I want to kiss you. May I?" John smiled while he was nibbling at Sherlock's navel.  
  
"Oh God, yes, please, John."  
  
And John's mouth wandered southwards, deeper and deeper, using the tip of his tongue to stroke a line downwards. Sherlock squirmed under him, moaning his name.  
  
When John licked his full length and took him in his mouth, sucking and whirling his tongue around his top, Sherlock couldn't speak anymore. He was trembling and moaning, and his hands clawed at the duvet and he cried out John's name when the orgasm shook him.  
  
John kissed him deeply and Sherlock could taste himself - it was amazing. He had wrapped his arms around John and was holding him tight when he became aware that John was still rock hard. Sherlock thrust his hips upwards and John groaned in his mouth. Then he managed to get one hand between their bodies and he wrapped his fingers around John. He stroke him slowly, his thumb slid over his top and spread his precum all down his length. John gasped and Sherlock licked and kissed at his ear, and then he nibbled at his neck and sucked at that sensitive point behind his ear. It didn't take long; John arched into Sherlock's hand and when Sherlock buried his teeth in his neck, he shattered over the edge and his vision went white for a moment. Sherlock pulled him in close and John panted for air, his body still trembling. They kissed again, their hands moving across their bodies all the time, reaching for every piece of skin they could reach, pressing up close together like they still couldn't get close enough.  


 

***

  
  
                                                                       
The next Friday John came home early from the surgery. Sherlock were at the kitchen, working on an experiment.  
  
"Hallo Sherlock." John hung up his jacket and went into the kitchen. "I've a headache; I'm going to lie down a bit."  
  
Sherlock looked up from the microscope, his eyes narrowed. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes", John reassured him, "it's really just a headache. I'll lay down for an hour or two, then I'll be fine."  
  
"Do you still want to go out tonight?" Sherlock watched him close.  
  
"Of course I want to, and I'm looking forward for dinner", he grinned. "You know I've got a date."  
  
"Of course", Sherlock repeated and looked at the microscope again; John went upstairs to enjoy the tranquility of his room.  


***

  
It was 7:30 pm when John came downstairs again. He'd been asleep for a while and showered afterwards; now he felt better. Dressed in a tight black Jeans and a similar t-shirt, he stood in the living room in front of the mirror and fumbled at his hair.  
  
Suddenly Sherlock appeared behind him. "Don't exaggerate."  
  
John gave him a smug smile. "My date likes that, what shall I do?"  
  
With one swift movement Sherlock turned John around to face him. He grabbed him by his shoulders and pushed him against the wall, his dark eyes pierced John's. Then he grabbed John's wrists and held them firmly above his head, pressed him with his whole body hard against the wall, so that John couldn't move. His lips found Johns, he kissed him hard, demanding, bit him, swallowed him. Only gradually the kisses and bites became gentler and his grip loosened, so that John could put his arms around Sherlock. In turn he pressed against Sherlock, wouldn't let the pressure be one-sided. Eventually Sherlock buried his face in John's neck. "John Watson, what have you done to me?"  
  
John ran his hands smoothing up and down Sherlock's back. "Classic case of obsession," he said, smiling at his shoulder. "But I think I can live with that." Sherlock blushed; he was still pressing his face into John's neck. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't want to …" But John stopped him. "Hey, it's all fine." He cupped Sherlock's face with his hands. "Maybe you overreacted a bit, but it was also very - stimulating." He smiled and kissed him tenderly. "Come on, let's go, I'm starving."  


***

  
  
After the dinner they went to the club. Sherlock wore black jeans as well, and his purple button down-shirt that John liked so much. They got a drink at the bar and sat down at one of the tables. John knew how much Sherlock liked to watch other people, so they sat there for a while and played their game. He chose someone and Sherlock told him everything about the person; it was most interesting.  
  
Somewhat later, John's feet began to itch; he wanted to dance, and this time not alone. Finally he stood up and held out a hand. "Coming?"  
  
"I'll never let you dance alone again, too dangerous," he smiled and took the hand.  
  
John went ahead, winding through the people, greeting some here and others there, until he was where he wanted. He turned around and let Sherlock's hand go, began to move to the music. With eyes closed, his head slightly tilted to the side, he let himself become enveloped by the music, drifting to the beat.  
  
Sherlock was stunned. Of course he had known how John looked when he danced, but now, here, to be with him ... it was just ... breathtaking. He couldn't move and merely stood in the crowd, watching him. Then John opened his eyes and saw what had happened. He smiled, moving up to him and took his hand. As a result, Sherlock awoke from his torpor.  
  
He looked gorgeous in that purple shirt; John ran his hand through the tangled dark curls. And then Sherlock finally relaxed and got involved with the music. He danced amazingly well; John had suspected as much, as elegantly as he already moved in everyday life.  
  
As a couple they were startling. Sherlock certainly recognised the gazes of others guests. Some of the women, he realised, had tried to come closer to John before. And even Victor was there, watching them bewildered and jealous.  
  
It was just brilliant; Sherlock had never felt like this, so happy and so proud. He was proud to be with John here, to belong to him. John had chosen him, though he probably could have had almost anyone here. This realisation virtually overwhelmed him and he felt as if his heart would burst with happiness. He grabbed John's hand and held it tight for a moment; John returned the pressure, smiling and dancing closer to him.  
  
Their eyes met and locked. As if on cue, a new song began, melodic guitar music sounded through the room and John pulled Sherlock towards him, took him in his arms and danced with him tightly entwined. The soft voice of the singer made them forget the world for a moment; their world was perfect at this very moment, just as it was.  
  
  
The End  
  
  
  
                                                                           
  
 _The greatest thing I ever learned is I don't know a thing_  
 _The hardest thing I ever earned is a chance in the ring_  
 _"Simple boys make better boyfriends"; that just isn't true_  
 _And time will tick 'til you can see there's no simple in loving you_  
 _(Rob Me Blind by Jay Brannan)_


End file.
